Deletion
by somevelvetmorning
Summary: Every time Sherlock has a realization about his romantic feelings towards John, he deletes the memory that triggered it. In effect, he has lost conversations and pieces of memories. During a pretend relationship required for a case, he realizes these memories cannot be deleted or evidence will be lost. Forced to keep them, he has to decide what to do with his affections.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock sat on his bed, looking over some evidence bags from his most recent case. Clothed in his blue robe, his careful fingers opened the bag and lightly gripped a small Japanese figurine between his index and thumb. There were speckles of blue paint over the doll's poorly manufactured blushing face. But what was the significance of this blue paint? Why was it placed purposefully next to the body? Things started to blur out of focus as he stood and paced around his room. At least, he thought he stood. He must have if he was pacing. Why couldn't he remember?

Insignificant. The paint. Why the paint?

He looked at his watch briefly, but the hand was difficult to focus on. He looked again, staring intently. Had he been drugged?

Paint. Blue. Traces of lead in the paint. Was the figurine old?

When did he ever test the paint?

Panic rose in his throat, his breathing escalated as his head whipped around the room.

Robe. Color? Blue.

Name? William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

Why was he here?

That was the question that left him baffled and confused. Sherlock confused is a disaster within itself.

He looked at his walls, trying to focus on the Doctor Who poster across from his bed. Man in a suit, big blue box, a show for fools.

But...but...he had never watched the show...why was there a poster...?

Sherlock noticed that the walls began to move like water, everything became unstable.

But then he remembered.

John. Where was John?

On cue, the man himself strode in to his room. Everything became stable and still, physically and mentally.

Everything stopped shaking, the air became calm and silent. The chaos had died.

All of the questions of why had been forgotten, he had been engulfed in those dark blue irises, unable to look away.

He had a coy smile on his face, knowing within Sherlock's void of unknown.

It was extremely irritating.

He tried to focus on what John was wearing, trying to center himself, but was repeatedly distracted by that glint in his eyes as he walked closer to Sherlock.

All of a sudden, everything was fuzzy again.

As John held his head in his hands, stroking Sherlock's face thoughtfully with his right thumb. It sent shocks of energy running up Sherlock's spine and into his lungs. Since when was air so hard to come by? The thump in his chest grew louder and stronger as John grew closer. With a swift tug, Sherlock was pulled down to John's height. The doctor leaned in, smiling, and lightly pressed his lips against-

*Gasp*

Sherlock awoke with a start, breathing wildly, his eyes wide open.

He lightly pressed his own fingers to his lips, reliving the sensation he had felt only a few moments before.

He closed his eyes and remembered John leaning into him, causing his heartbeat to falter.

He and John had...he was...he was attracted to John.

The signs were obvious. Escalated breathing, nerve reactions, anticipation.

The realization hit him full blown as he sat up in bed, running his pale fingers through the damp, black ringlets popping out from every direction.

He predicted the possibilities of a relationship and the probabilities of a returned attraction in three minutes and fifty-six seconds.

The probability was most surely in his favor, John was not a very difficult man to deduce.

As for the possibilities for a relationship, things got increasingly complicated. Sherlock wasn't very good with other people's feelings or just compassion in general. John would be hurt unintentionally on a daily basis. Would this new, tender finding make up for the heads in the fridge and toenails in the tub? Would making John happy finally make him happy?

The theories raced around his mind until something stopped him directly in his tracks.

It was the unknown, that dark gaping hole staring at him from every direction.

It was that 13% chance that John would become disgusted with him, pack his bags and leave 221B after an emotional confrontation.

That 48% chance that a relationship between them would not be satisfactory for the both of them, especially his doctor.

He could not take any chances, not with John.

John was necessary to life, needed like air.

Sentiment is for the losing side.

Mycroft's harsh words cut across his throat, causing him to choke a little.

It was a motto he had lived by all of his life, he would not end that pattern now.

He had to forget.

Sherlock slowly and shakily placed his finger tips to his temples.

Feel nothing.

He let his eyelids flutter close.

He murmured under his breath, with regret laced within every quiver of his voice:

"Goodbye John."

Delete.

Sherlock re-opened his eyes, his face no longer in a grimace. He did not acknowledge the tears running down his cheeks, for he assumed they were from a bad dream he must have previously deleted.

Irrelevant.


	2. Chapter 2

John awoke softly, unlike other nights.

Usually, the war would find him again. He would writhe in bed, weeping into his pillow while the shocks cascaded through his body like the crashes of waves. All of the men and women he had never saved visited him constantly in his sleep. Memories were relived. Blood was shed. It was like his dreams were a film reel of events that had happened to him, except he didn't want to remember any of them.

The last one he had was a distorted memory, a horrible one at that.

He could remember the blood, there was so much of it. All over his hands as he held a man in his arms. He was a complete stranger to him and John felt so cheated. He hadn't become a doctor to watch people die.

The man stared up at him with pale blue eyes, which was all that he could really see of his face. The rest was either drenched in sticky, scarlet fluids or completely blown off by the explosion. Everything was red except for those clean, piercing blue eyes. He moaned over and over, in too much pain to move. The moans turned into bloody gargles and he coughed it up all over John. As soon as he stopped coughing, he started choking on it, dying with gargled screams and moans in John's arms.

What was distorted?

John could do nothing.

That was the one difference between nightmare and reality.

The one man who could save him from this, he was frozen in place. Unable to speak, move, cry.

It's sick, isn't it? Not wanting to remember your own life because it's so twisted and disturbing. When your past is a nightmare.

Not today.

John slowly lifted the covers off of himself and stretched his legs, being careful with his bad one. He felt his toes touch the floor as he turned to the side, staring at the wall to the side of his bed.

Blank.

He stretched his torso and arms, grabbing his laptop as he walked down the stairs.

Wait.

He missed a step.

John looked down, noticing that he wasn't wearing a shirt...or pants.

Shit.

Before he could turn away and scurry back up the stairs as fast as possible, Sherlock was already addressing him while staring at his phone.

"John. Lestrade has requested our help for a case that requires undercover work. Our suspect is Alan Burkley, a suspect in three separate, almost disconnected homicides. The only connection is that all the victims were male in relationships with other men and traces leading back to Alan's services. Different deaths, different places of death. He is a therapist at "Still Waters", a well known couples retreat located in Brighton, just south of London."

Forgetting his lack of clothing, John crossed his arms and asked:

"So what are we going undercover as? What are our identities?"

Sherlock looked up from his phone, staring at John.

"We are Leo Carver and Joseph Smith. We have been in a relationship for three years, now experiencing tension and difficulty."

His stare, unfaltering. It could rattle John to bits.

" You believe I am not affectionate enough and treat you harshly. You feel that I do not value you enough, and that I don't want you around. I feel that you do not understand me or my feelings. I feel that you are ignorant to my interests and have yours in other people than I. As for sex, it is dull for the both of us."

John stood in shock, his eyes wide and mouth slightly open.

" I suggest you start packing. We will be staying at the retreat for a week, more than enough time to find evidence on these murders."

" We're pretending to be a gay couple."

Sherlock sighed heavily.

" Yes John, please do try to keep up. I have already packed, once you are finished, we can take a cab over."

Something in John's stomach clenched.

" Are we...are we bait?"

Sherlock ignored this question and stalked back into his bedroom, staring at his phone screen.

John jogged up the stairs, anticipation buried in his gut.

When he looked around his room, he searched for key items.

Pants.

Shirts.

Underwear.

Socks.

Gun.

Duffel-bag.

As he stuffed the clothing in, he dryly chuckled. Sherlock's description of their identities sounded a lot like what they are like in real life.

Maybe they can work through their real problems, as long as they don't get murdered by their therapist first.

He thoughtfully placed his gun under his piles of clothing, in the sleeve of a shirt.

Done.

Quickly, he slipped on his striped shirt and dark jeans.

Gripping his bag in one hand, he pattered down the stairs, setting it by the door.

Sherlock walked back out of his room.

"We are Leo Carver and Joseph Smith. We have been in a relationship for three years, now experiencing tension and difficulty. You believe I am not affectionate enough and treat you harshly. You feel that I do not value you enough, and that I don't want you around. I feel that you do not understand me or my feelings. I feel that you are ignorant to my interests and have yours in other people than I. As for sex, it is dull for the both of us."

John stuttered in confusion:

"Sherlock...you just said that. Exactly...that's exactly how you said it."

Now Sherlock was confused.

"How could I have? I just decided this while I was in my bedroom."

_What the hell?_

"Sherlock, are you alright? You're not...you're completely sober, correct?"

Sherlock sneered.

"Yes John, I am not high. Considering I just made this decision a few minutes ago, I should ask the same about you."

John paled, but became pinkish at the tips of his ears.

"I want you to eat a piece of toast before we go anywhere."

Sherlock sighed again.

"Tedious John. We are losing time. We have to go, now."

"Fine."

John walked over to one of the cabinets in the kitchen and pulled something out. He picked it up and threw it at Sherlock, who caught it with impressive agility.

" Chips. Eat them in the cab."

Sherlock nodded while rolling his eyes.

"Yes, yes. Let's go."

They picked up their bags and ran down the stairs.

John didn't catch Sherlock staring at the back of his head, regret sunken into his eyes.

It was just beginning.


	3. Chapter 3

It was obvious.

His memory technique, deletion, must remain disused until the end of the case.

Sherlock was not sure what it was that was deleted, but he deduced that it had some type of emotional value. He would not have made such a reckless mistake, if his reasoning hadn't been clouded.

This was unusual, if not frightening.

Clouded reasoning was not typical of Sherlock Holmes.

The very though of it induced goose bumps on the back of his neck. He unconsciously tightened his blue scarf, preventing his pale skin from coming into contact with the chilly, winter air. Not that it was ever warm in London.

Was it the cold or fear?

Tedious mysteries Sherlock would usually...delete.

No sentiment, focus.

Scarf - blue.

Blue.

Evoked by light with a predominant wavelength of 440-490nm.

Considered one of the additive primary colors.

The science of pigments and the reflection distracted Sherlock for a few minutes, that is...until...

John spoke.

"Sherlock, the cab's here. Hey, Sherlock!"

He could hear mild panic and aggravation in his voice, but Sherlock could only see blue.

"You know, standing out on the sidewalk isn't the best time to use your mind palace. Sherlock? Oh, this is ridiculous. Come on."

He felt contact on his left hand, and the sting of air on his cheeks. Moving.

A car door opening.

Then silence and warmth.

Sherlock sighed with relief and continued with his cataloging of the qualities of certain pigments.

He was finally composed.

When Sherlock opened his eyes, he was assaulted with an increased heart rate and shaking fingers.

Blue.

A million shades, from the lightest pastels to the darkest hues.

Dark oceans, crashing and pulsing, nerve endings splitting.

John's eyes were full of pigments science had never prepared him for.

"You've been in your mind palace for twenty minutes."

Deduction time.

His face first.

John had a visible frown, the sides of his lips turned down a little. His eyebrows were furrowed, but not significantly. His eyes, searching, wandering. Shaved, yesterday evening - the scruff. His hair was growing longer than the length it would normally be retained at, he would mention a haircut soon. Nose - scrunched slightly.

Emotional evaluation verdict: Annoyed, but curious.

His clothing was clean and had folding creases, but the shirt was one he did not particularly prefer. It was one his sister had gotten him years ago, plaid with blue and green shades. He had to do laundry soon, he must have packed some already worn clothing.

He did not realize that his shirt made his eyes look like small gemstones.

Irrelevant.

"Sherlock?"

He had to search through socially acceptable phrases, it would not be acceptable to have John in a passive aggressive state during this case. Especially such a trying one as this.

He spoke, calmly and clearly. Breaking the pattern of John's slow, leveled breathing and the sound of rubber on asphalt. Light humming near the driver's seat.

"I'm sorry John."

His expression changed almost instantly, he now harbored a smile and crinkles at the edges of his eyes.

He said: "No, Sherlock. Really, It's fine."

There was a pause before he continued.

"So, do you have a plan for this case? Any more details?" John's voice was a cheery hum.

Sherlock smiled lightly in return, John's expression of contentment would best be preserved if he was not the only one smiling.

"Yes. We will be sharing a double bedroom. I have already planned this portion out, you are taking the bed. I will not be sleeping, I do not need it. Do not argue. We have two therapy appointments daily, and reconnection activities throughout the rest of the day. For that, we will be assigned a group. They also provide meals for us, including breakfast, lunch and dinner. You will not have to worry about the trip financially, I had Mycroft pay for it."

John nodded, looking thoughtfully out of the window.

Sherlock slyly and slowly wove is hand through John's.

This would be interesting.

John gasped, almost inaudibly, and turned to look at their interlocked hands.

"Why..."

"John, they are going to expect us to touch affectionately. I can't afford you to have a less than satisfactory reaction to this when we are in public. They will be watching us, we can't let them become suspicious. Especially since our therapist is a suspected serial killer. He must not have any inclination to believe that we are not who we say we are."

"Sherlock, how far will we have to go?" John said cautiously, assessing Sherlock's reaction.

No emotion. Distance.

"As far as they expect us to, and don't address me as Sherlock anymore. We must become used to our false identities. Call me Leo."

John scoffed.

"Well, _Leo, _I'm not sure why I even agreed to this. It's not as if people aren't already talking about our "secret relationship". And won't the therapist recognize us from the papers?"

Sherlock smirked.

"Don't be obtuse, Joseph. Do you really think I would be so ignorant to travel here without disguises?"

He pulled a small box out of his left coat pocket and held it up for John to see.

"Colored contact lenses. We can't afford a slip up with wigs, or anything of that sort. We will be subtle. If you haven't noticed, I have been growing my beard out past it's normal length. I will continue to let it grow, so will you."

He imagined John in a ginger, curly wig. He imagined him trying to execute an Irish accent.

"A poor disguise is worse than none at all. Much more suspicious."

The cabbie spoke up.

"We're about ten minutes away from Still Waters!"

John said: "Yes, thank you!"

He sighed, the lines in his face becoming more visible.

Sherlock brushed his thumb over John's, assessing his reaction.

He seemed comforted by this, responding with a weak smile as he squeezed back.

"Joseph...I...I couldn't have chosen a more qualified partner to work undercover with."

Sherlock fumbled with his words, compliments weren't something he was used to. He just needed John to smile, for unexplainable reasons.

Irrelevant.

John looked up at him in awe, a grin almost playing on his lips.

"Thank you..."

Sherlock awkwardly cleared his throat.

"Lay your head on my shoulder."

John's eyes widened and his mouth popped open, forming a lazy "o".

"Sherlock, I-"

"Leo."

"_Leo, _I don't see why this is necessary. Aren't we supposed to be a _failing_ couple?"

"Yes, but we are also supposed to be an improving couple. After a few days, we must show some signs of improvement. I will be distracted with the case, so this is the time I have set aside to practice acts of physical affection. I would not request this if it was not necessary to the case. Lay your head on my shoulder."

John reluctantly shuffled over to Sherlock's seat, unbuckling his seatbelt. Sherlock unclasped their hands and wrapped his arm around John's shoulder, pulling his head to his shoulder. John laid his head down softly, and Sherlock rested his head on top of John's, inhaling the sent of his hair.

There was something oddly comforting about the whole experience, a mixture of calm and fire.

So warm.

The consulting detective was not used to this kind of contact, certainly not this much of it.

It was like John had let go, all the stress and tension from his body faded. His doctor melted into him, his eyelids began to droop and it was obvious what was coming next.

So obvious.


End file.
